If We Survive

Chapter 28

Morning, evening, A day gone by.

From the moment I wake up, the day seems ominus, if you belive in that sort of thing. After all of this, I still don't. After having creepy dreams, after a bleeding spirit wolf, I still can't bring myself to belive in that sort of thing. Plus, it could just be side effects to the fact that I've been in a drunken stupor for the past month. That probubly has negitive health effects. 

Of course, I've been having dreams long before any of that came into my pathetic life. 

A massive, dark cloud looms over the valley, like a thunderhead in summer. Breifly, I wonder if it's a dream, but I dissmiss it. I can tell when I'm dreaming, and this certianly isn't it. At least the cloud aren't, say, yellow. That could be a very bad sign. 

I put away my things in a slow, almost robotic manner, everything stacked up. I take a long, remincing glance at my thick leather wallet, waiting for a miricle. My life had been mundane for the past eternity, a never-ending cycle of nothingness. What used to be a thrill is just yesterday, or today. Maybe part of me died, like I can't feel anymore. That ised to happen to me, years and years ago- I would just stop caring, and it would end me up in a shlew of trouble. 

But now it seems permenant. Like I look at the pictures in my wallet every once in a while, and it should make me cry, or it should prick me in some way, that mu family is gone without a trace, and I'm alone in this world until God-knows when, but it doesn't. I just stare blankly at their faces, wishing that I had someone to talk to. 

I stand, up, legs holding well, better than ususal.  

In that moment, something happens inside me, like a giant hole just opened up in my heart. I feel heavy wighed down. I feel done. 

Done with this, done with everything. I suppose I should be tired of this. Every few weeks, I go insanely crazy, and want to kill myself. I suppose what just hit me is more of a longing than anything. I miss my computer, and my life and Dee. 

Yeah, I suppose I'm going to go bitch about him again. 

He meant a helluva lot to me. More than my family, sadly enough. And right now, I would do anything to get him back. I would do anything for him. That makes me sound like an over protective sibling, but it's true. 

In a different world, we would've lived scross the street from each other, raising our children together. They would walk to the bus stop together, and we would go on vaction together. We'd hold the same boring, cubical job together. 

Or maybe we could die young. 

Whatever it was, it was always us together. 

Him turning into a bloodthirsty monster was not in the picture, at least not without me murdering innocent people right beside him. 

What we had was byond romance, or bromance, or beig siblings, or... It was like the first stable relationship that I ever had. 

But I pull myself back up again. 

I don't realize that I'm on the ground, with my face in my hands. I stand up, and I start walking. 

You know when you think you've finally sort of figured things out, and then life just throws you a cruveball?

It happens to be the story of my entire existence. 

Sadly, I hadn't even gotten close to figureing things out. 

I started going up again, up into the higher places of the Rockies. Maybe I'll get lucky and die of oxygen depravation. 

"Don't move." Deja vu. It's like the tag line of people who want me dead everywere. 

This time, though, it's not a friend of mine. The voice is rough and gruff, the sort of thing that you would find on someone who smoked their entire life. 

I turn around, slowly. In front of me are the words "YOU'RE FUCKED." 

Or maybe six or seven men wearing orange jumpsuits, all of which appear to be well armed. The first of them is maybe fifteen feet away, a Baretta held streight forward in his right arm. Every single senario that I run in my head ends badly. 

There's the most intense staring match ever, and then some weedy guy in the back with dark untrimmed hair that might've once been in some sort of mohawk. 

"You a changed?" He asks in a misplaced British accent. 

I can't actually figure out what to say, so I stutter out, "Don't shoot me." I'm the anti-Christ of cool. Like, whenever I imagine myself being the big hero and saving the day, that phrase does not  come to mind. 

I'm no hero, anyway. 

The big man with the Baretta snorts, sending tingles down my spine. Every fiber in my body is screaming, "RUN!" but my mind is replying camly, "Not yet." 

There prceeds a very stange staring contest. We're clearly waiting for the other to make the first move- either way, there's going to be a hole in me, maybe more, if the weapon that a huge red-headed guy has is an AK. 

He looks like the kind of guy that could kill you with a punch. 

I knew a guy like that. 

Dee's big brother, in fact. He was the funniest guy, if not a bit thick. He punched a brick wall and broke his hand. 

Every Goddamned thing comes back to that fucker. 

"You know what," Says Baretta, raising his weapon. 

Hell.

"Don't shoo-" I cry, but I'm cut off by a bang, and the sound of metal entering the flesh of my chest.

I don't know what's going on, at first, until I realize that I'm falling, falling to my knees. I hit the ground, as a drop of blood falls from my still open lips. 

One thought rushes though my panicked mind: I don't want to die. 

Oh God, I don't want to die.